


we never had a garden of eden/but god damn did we have the forbidden fruit

by dreamingofstatic



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Fluff, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Monster!bruce, Mutual Pining, No Incest, Vampire!Bruce, also jim gordon is a werewolf, gorgon!Jeremiah, gorgon!Jerome, i just really wanted to write about snakes okay, idk how canon compliant this is, monster!Jeremiah, they wanna be in love but also kill each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-05 20:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20279410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamingofstatic/pseuds/dreamingofstatic
Summary: The darkest part of him wonders how it would feel to die in each others embrace - Jeremiah in green, fangs sunk deep into Bruce’s neck, injecting him with venom and letting the vampire bleed. Bruce in red, drinking deep from Jeremiah’s throat, glutting himself on the metallic taste of copper, running hot and cold beneath his skin. The thought both excites and terrifies him immensely.jeremiah was his medusa, but the 'turning people to stone' thing was more of a metaphor than anything else.





	we never had a garden of eden/but god damn did we have the forbidden fruit

**Author's Note:**

> this was written in one draft and it is Not Good but hey guess what it exists now
> 
> only reason i wrote it was because i had the idea of jerome being a coral snake gorgon (venomous) and jeremiah being a scarlet kingsnake gorgon (not venomous but confused often w the coral snake). character dynamics and stuff (^-^)
> 
> i have no idea how canon-compliant this is but who cares at this point

_Red touches yellow, kill a fellow. _

Jerome and Jeremiah, true to form, took on more characteristics of their snake-dancer mother than they both wanted to admit. Jerome had strived to become the worst example, hair an unkempt, writhing mass of coral snakes._ Mother always was a stone cold bitch, _he would rasp, mouth a ghastly grin and forked tongue flicking out between pointed teeth, _it’s only fitting she’d give birth to a couple of gorgons, huh? Comedy gold._

Bruce remembers the acrid taste of blood on his breath, the last syllable of his name in a drawn-out hiss as the mirrors around him reflected endless, bottomless yellow eyes, pupils slit and brimming with malice. The glistening muscle just barely visible beneath fishbelly skin was the exact same shade as the serpents crowning his head, the same shade as his garish tailcoat.

_"I wish I could turn you to stone," Jerome's smooth words were contrasted by the rough grate of his voice, "Keep you around forever. Be my little statue." _

Bruce tries to forget being pressed up against his chest, everything around him spinning as hollow teeth grazed the shell of his ear, threatening a love bite that would call curtains on his show forever.

Jeremiah, in contrast, was the crybaby. The good kid, the one everyone avoided for no fault of his own. The scarlet king, the false coral. Constantly mistaken for a venomous brother, constantly assumed to be dangerous, manipulative - the blood running through his veins spiked with poison. The weakling marked by a reputation that was never his to begin with.

_ “I meant no offense, Jeremiah, it’s just-“ _

_ “I know. Don’t apologize. I’m used to it by now.” _

He’d been the picture of someone wronged throughout his childhood, a false prophet, a nervous gaze hidden by thin-rimmed glasses and crowned by scarlet serpents. Bruce appreciated the company, to know there was someone else in this city who had the same nightmares, the same terror when hearing that sandpaper snarl. If Jeremiah minded the supernatural reverb in Bruce’s voice or the red glint in his eye under the fluorescent lights, he didn’t show it. Likewise, Bruce said nothing of the scales on the backs of Jeremiah’s hands, the canine teeth so close to matching his own.

Bruce wishes he had been there for the transformation. The little parcel embossed with his name that had scrubbed the color from Jeremiah’s skin, bleached those green-hazel eyes, sloughed the skin from false coral scales to replace them with something new, something_ better. _

_ (if he’d looked closer, if only he’d looked closer, he would have seen patches of green beneath the coral paint, seen the new glint in his eyes) _

Bruce didn’t see his face for a while after that horrible moment in the graveyard, but the voice on the phone had changed its tone, and he could hear the venom in Jeremiah’s words.

The scarlet king had been usurped by the green boomslang, and poison absolutely dripped from the new figure he cut. Bruce had looked into newly-slit pupils and felt as if he could never move again. A resurrected Medusa, Jeremiah looked every inch a monster fabled in mythology. Bruce wanted to memorialize him, craft him anew from marble, sink his teeth into that powdered quartz skin.

_ (there was no longer the need for mimicry, for protective coloration) _

He didn’t like to admit it, but he fantasied about drawing blood from Jeremiah’s veins, biting down on his tongue and letting him bite back, letting his hands rest in a nest of fresh green scales. Being_ allowed _to. He wanted to know if his heart still beats in his chest, what being injected with his venom would feel like. He thinks of long nights underground and the warmth of Jeremiah’s hand on his and he curses himself. Those dreams can no longer manifest themselves in reality, his fond memories coated in soot and rubble. Buried alive under a layer of newly awoken personality traits.

The darkest part of him wonders how it would feel to die in each others embrace - Jeremiah in green, fangs sunk deep into Bruce’s neck, injecting him with venom and letting the vampire bleed. Bruce in red, drinking deep from Jeremiah’s throat, glutting himself on the metallic taste of copper, running hot and cold beneath his skin. The thought both excites and terrifies him immensely.

Bruce knows that Jeremiah didn’t ask to be turned, just as he himself didn’t ask to be bitten, just as neither of them asked to be targeted by Jerome. However, he fits so nicely into his new role, like a brand new coat, that it seems hard to imagine he never envisioned any other destiny for himself. It is jarring to look upon his face, to expect scarlet and to be rewarded with satin green. To part his lips and reveal new weapons. New poison. Every time Jeremiah looks at him he can feel his heart jump, a miniature betrayal, and he wants nothing more but to return to what once was. Selina tried to comfort him about it, but looking into her own pair of yellow eyes only reminded him of the sickly pale ones that haunt his every waking hour. Their pupils are the same.

At night, Bruce’s head swims with cat-eyes and snake-eyes and hazel eyes behind glasses, hazel eyes looking at him fondly, hazel eyes brimming with tears, hazel eyes set in a painted white face. Jim, ever the faithful watchdog of the GCPD (literally), tried to gift him sleeping aids, but he rejected them after he sunk into a night terror and could not wake up. His kind always functioned better during later hours anyway.

Bruce is aware he can’t change Jeremiah back to the way he used to be - they’re both far too gone for that now. The face he projects to the outside world only wants to deal with Jeremiah once and for all, to throw him in Arkham and never see his face again. Good little bat, Bruce. Face the cameras and smile, Bruce. 

Inside of him, though, a traitorous part of himself wants Jeremiah’s lips on his, wants to warm his cold, lifeless skin and fall asleep against his chest. He wants to hold his hand. His encounters with Jeremiah so far have been shot through with tension, an unspoken thread connecting the two that only one of them wants to acknowledge. Every time Bruce stares into those haunting green eyes, he wants to scream. 

Both of them are drawn to each other, but neither of them will yield. A fight out of mythos, vampire against gorgon, man to man and lover to lover. Bruce begs for Jeremiah to relinquish his ideals while Jeremiah simply wants for Bruce to join him, a pair of tyrants ruling over a dark island. With the power they wield, how could anyone disobey? He’s_ imploring you, _Bruce; it could be so_ simple, _Bruce!

_"I wish I could take credit for all this pain, Bruce," Jeremiah whispers, an upturned palm pressing into Bruce's chest, "But I merely put the apple to your lips. All you need to do is bite down."_

Nevertheless, Bruce feels like every meeting they have ends in the two either face to face or running away, afraid to pursue anything more than what they already have. Jeremiah leaves lipstick imprints on Bruce’s cheeks and a stony feeling in his stomach and is so_ beautiful, _so god damn_ beautiful, _all the while. Bruce walks the tightrope and teeters between denial and acceptance, guilt and treachery, love and hate. Jeremiah can’t, won’t, look back; the only progress they’ll make is if Bruce steps forward into the dark.

_"Come find me."_

One night, Bruce wakes to find the window open.

Jeremiah Valeska stands before it, backlit by milky moonlight. Black circles rim his eyes; the skin surrounding his scales looks dry and pale as bleached bone. He looks positively green around the gills. Hissing fills the room, though no poison is evident in its tone. It is the sound of weakness, of discontent.

Bruce pulls back the sheets and Jeremiah climbs into bed, breathing labored. No words are exchanged between the two. Bruce feels snakeskin coil around the shell of his ear, seeking warmth.

Bruce intertwines his fingers with Jeremiah’s, not surprised by how icy his skin is. Gotham is freezing and at least some portion of Jeremiah’s blood runs cold. Bruce curls against his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his dress shirt. Internally he begs to go further, to feel Jeremiah’s lips on his neck, the fangs they share grazing each other’s skin, the warmth they can both feel as they press into each other.

Instead, he closes his eyes, and listens to the faint sounds Jeremiah makes as he fades into sleep, and doesn’t say anything at all.


End file.
